


Birthday surprise

by marysutherland



Series: Harry/Molly sequence [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/F, Femslash, First Time, historians have murky pasts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-10
Updated: 2011-10-10
Packaged: 2017-10-24 11:33:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/262999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly Hooper's "Getting over falling for unsuitable men party" takes an unexpected turn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Rating 15 (for whole fic - femslash, alcoholism)

Spoilers: some for The Great Game  
 

Many thanks for beta-ing to [Blooms84](http://blooms84.livejournal.com/) despite almost total lack of Lestrade in this.

 

Molly had vaguely hoped she'd end up in bed with someone at the end of her party, but she really hadn't envisioned this.

Technically, it was her thirty-second birthday party. In private it was her "Getting over falling for unsuitable men party". Not the first one she'd had of that kind, but this time she meant it. Being involved with one gay sociopath in a year might be unfortunate. Being involved with two looked like carelessness.

Of course, she hadn't realised Sherlock was gay, which was fair enough, because Sherlock had only just realised it. And she hadn't realised that Jim was a sociopath, which looking back, she really ought to have done. Thank goodness she'd never left him alone with Toby, her kitten. But somehow, being with Jim had nevertheless helped her get her head straight, know that she had to do better next time. It was just unfortunate for a woman who loved animals that she was so bad at spotting the difference between a tabby and a wildcat.

It did help, though, that it had become obvious to everyone in the aftermath of Moriarty that sociopathic geniuses were really not glamorous figures, however good their tailoring might be. Even Sherlock was trying to edge towards empathy these days, helped by John's training. John's techniques weren't exactly subtle – she'd been surprised on hearing him yell that he'd break Sherlock's bloody neck if he flirted with Molly again, especially since his tone was completely unconvincing to anyone who actually understood about jealousy – but it seemed to be working. Sherlock was several degrees less maddening than he used to be, and distinctly less manipulative towards her. She had a lot to thank John for. Maybe she should have...

But no, even she'd seen early on that while going to bed with someone while thinking of someone else might possibly be justified, going to bed with someone when you were both thinking about the same someone else was bound to lead to trouble. Besides, John was just that bit too...normal to appeal to her

Still, if it was going to be a getting over unsuitable men party, Sherlock had to be there, in order to be got over properly. Plus John, because everything was now "John and Sherlock". They were now universally accepted as some kind of item - even if one that involved unusually vague parameters and possibly strange external combinations. They might not be officially together, but they were clearly unofficially togetherfor the next forty years, or till one got himself killed.

It would have been satisfying to have had Jim there as well, but a little morbid, so his remains, what was left of them, could stay where they were in one of the obscurer annexes of the pathology lab. She now no longer had the need to check every day that he was still safely dead, so that could probably count as being over him.

Who else should she invite to the party? The problem with trying to make a fresh start, Molly realised, was that so many of her friends had known her for so long. When she'd been in their address book as Molly Hooper, and Molly Hooper-Smith, and Molly Smith, and Molly Kablinski, and Molly Hooper again, it was hard to escape their preconceptions. So her birthday party was probably going to end up being the normal Bart's crowd, plus "John and Sherlock", and a couple of her neighbours. She'd wondered vaguely about asking the pair of American doctors who were over on sabbatical, but the rumour on the grapevine was that although the black-haired one was sweet, the one with the blue eyes and the stubble and the cane was a complete bastard, with an ego the size of a planet. You only needed one person like that at a party to keep the thing lively. And though she'd wondered about inviting some of the Met, Lestrade had said they were all still frantically busy, chasing the associates of the late...well just some criminals.

That didn't leave much hope of any straight men she might want to sleep with being there, because although Nick from Internal Audit had sweet brown eyes, she still worried that his underwear might be sending messages that she couldn't read. And never mind the sex, it was probably going to be one of those parties where much of the time was spent sitting around bitching about Department of Health circulars, while drinking more than the recommended number of units of alcohol.

Still, she had got everything prepared, and she was looking forward to seeing Sherlock – you could admire the fierce beauty of a tiger, without feeding the need to offer yourself as its next meal – only to have John phone an hour before the party.

"Sorry, we're going to have to cancel. We've got Harry here, she's going to have to stay with us for a few days."

"Is she OK?" Molly asked. She knew about Harry and her capacity for bizarre accidents by now, everyone did.

"She's OK, her flat isn't. The ceiling fell in. Not her fault this time. But it's all been a bit stressful, and if we leave her at Baker Street alone, there might be...problems."

Of course Sherlock couldn't or wouldn't come to the party on his own, and leaving Sherlock and Harry alone together in a flat might end up with another uninhabitable flat. But if they weren't going to come, it really would end up as another boring medics' party, she knew that. She had a sudden idea.

"Why don't you bring her with you? I really would like to meet her, I've heard so much about her."

"But she's...you know what she's like. I need to keep an eye on her at the moment."

"Can't you do that here? We could all keep an eye on her, give you a break. And I mean, we're all medics - we're not going to be alarmed if someone does get a bit rowdy."

"I don't know."

"John," Molly said, "are you really saying that Harry behaves worse at parties than Sherlock?"

"Well, put it like that...OK, we'll all be along in a bit."

***

It was going to be strange actually meeting Harry, Molly thought, because for all she had a certain notoriety at Barts, particularly in the Minor Injuries Unit, Molly really didn't know much about her, at least ordinary things. Harry had never ended up in the mortuary, thank God, though John alleged she had come close to it twice. She was an alcoholic lesbian with a very posh ex-partner, she had blood group O and scars on her arm from an incident with burning tin foil, but Molly had no idea what she would be like as a party guest. She just hoped she wasn't a vegan.

***

Harry was tiny, but tough-looking, which Molly supposed made sense for John’s sister. She had very short bleached blonde hair, black-framed glasses, and seemed to share John’s dress sense. Then it dawned on Molly that the clothes she wore were several sizes too big for her, and they probably were actually John’s. Perhaps that was the result of the ceiling incident, though she didn't feel she could ask. Even so, the way Harry’s glasses had presumably aimed for geek-chic and failed on the second part suggested that even in her own clothes she wouldn’t look much trendier.

“Molly, this is my sister, Dr Harriet Watson,” said John.

“Doctor?” said Molly.

“M-my brother is a proper doctor and an even bigger p-pain in the arse,” Harry said, in a quiet, stuttering voice. “I’m just an academ-mic, not a useful doctor.” She held out her hand and Molly shook it. It was surprisingly soft and delicate. Or maybe it was just that Molly’s hands had had so much scrubbing and alcohol gel that they were permanently on the verge of turning to sandpaper.

“Would you like to come and have a…” She ground to a halt.

“Some orange juice would be p-perfect, if you’ve got that,” said Harry, following her.

Molly wondered if Harry or John were going to explain what kind of academic she was, but presumably they had now spent so long with Sherlock that they expected you to deduce such things automatically. She had this vague feeling it was probably computing, given the glasses, and the watch, which looked like it told you the time on Mars as well as Earth. And the slight air in Harry of someone not quite comfortable with ordinary social interaction. Quite a lot of the IT department at Bart’s were like that, well apart from…the one who hadn’t been. But at least if she didn’t start drinking, Harry Watson was presumably not going to be much trouble at this party.

Molly had a brief few words with Sherlock, who was carefully trying not to wow her, and who she was carefully not being wowed by. Then the next lot of guests arrived and she was suddenly frantically busy. It was only about half an hour later that it penetrated her consciousness that someone was having a stand-up row in the living room. A stand-up row with Sherlock.

She hurried into the room, where Sherlock was yelling loudly at…Harry, who was standing in front of Sherlock with her arms folded, looking like a mouse who was getting royally pissed-off with a lion, and retorting:

“No, n-n-no, no! You are wrong, you do not have evidence for that. Come back when you have read Roy P-P-Porter, and you have learned something.”

It wasn’t one of Sherlock’s ordinary rows, Molly realised suddenly, from the broad smile he wore. It was an intellectual argument with rather loud footnotes. She wasn't entirely sure what it was about, although various London place names caught her ear. Sherlock and Harry were both speaking very rapidly now, and Harry's soft stuttering was particularly hard to follow, but she was holding her own, it was really quite impressive. She suddenly noticed John in the doorway, with a slightly stunned look on his face, so she went over to join him, because she liked John.

"Why is your sister arguing with Sherlock about London?" she asked.

"You've got it the wrong way round. Sherlock is trying to argue with Harry about the history of London, which is a seriously idiotic thing to do."

"She knows a lot about that?"

"She knows everything about eighteenth century London, and the nineteenth century as well, and in fact, pretty much all of London history. She's just a bit weak on most aspects of twenty-first century life."

"She's a historian, is she? I thought she looked a bit like an IT geek."

"Oh, she's that as well. You must get her to tell you about her baby next time, a huge database of Old Bailey trials they've just put on the web. She was the one who got all the problems fixed on that, the whole project wouldn't have worked without her. She knows more about crime in London than Lestrade, only it's all 250 years out of date."

Molly suddenly remembered. "I heard something on Radio 4 a while ago, a bit of a programme about women and murder in Georgian London. It was really interesting. Was she on that?"

"Yeah, I think she did a segment for that, but I don't know if they used it. She's never on TV, because she says they don't want short dykes with bad dress sense onscreen, but she's occasionally done radio. Only it's really not a good idea, because if she has just the right amount of alcohol she's still coherent, but the stammering stops, and she always ends up drinking just to try and find that place."

"John," said Molly, "why didn't you tell me that Harry was this brilliant historian?"

"I'm sure I said she was a genius, but completely impossible. Well, maybe I said more about the completely impossible bit. Because she has no common sense, and she gets fascinated by completely inappropriate subjects, and she won't stop talking sometimes, and she's not actually talking to you then, but at you...and, and if you can give me a few minutes I can explain why she is utterly, utterly, unlike Sherlock."

Molly gave him a look which she hoped told him to repent of his sexism, but was probably still too indulgent. Then Sherlock came flying towards them, still beaming, grabbing John by the shoulders, almost lifting him up.

"John, Harry says she'll come down the sewers with me. As long as they're proper Victorian sewers, no modern rubbish. So you've got to come with us now."

"No!" John almost shouted. "Sewers have rats, Weil's disease, faecal matter, sharps. Sanitation is by definition unsanitary. If it was for a case that's one thing, but sewer tourism is definitely wrong."

Sherlock swung round, catching sight of Molly.

"Molly," he said, with what sounded almost like genuine warmth, "just the person I was looking for."

Is he going to invite me down the sewers as well, she wondered.

"Harry wants to talk to someone about asphyxiation. Mike Stamford's with her at the moment, but he doesn't know anything, and you're just the girl to give her some useful information."

She suspected that he just wanted to snog John without her watching, but if there was one thing she did know about, it was dead bodies. She hurried back into the living room and found Harry, who was still on orange juice, but clearly finding Mike hard to take sober. She looked up – up! – at Molly as she arrived.

"Sherlock said you were interested in asphyxiation," said Molly. Oh God, that had come out wrong, hadn't it? But a smile broadened on Harry's face and she looked at Molly eagerly.

"Not so m-much asphyxiation," she said, "but I am terribly interested in hearing about hanging."

***

Harry's intense focus on her was amazing, she thought, as Harry eagerly drank down the information pouring out of Molly as if she was the only person in the world that mattered. It was almost like - no, actually it wasn't like Sherlock, because Sherlock always seemed to know more than Molly, even when he really didn't - whereas Harry clearly had little formal medical background. Just a relentless appetite for ideas, and the ability to turn a fact so you suddenly saw it from underneath, as something new and strange. And then they were off hanging, and onto crime, and now it was Harry doing the talking, but not talking at Molly, but telling her stories. And she knew how to tell stories, how to hook your interest, give you a laugh, then make you stop and think. Molly had got her ear attuned to Harry's voice now, or maybe Harry had just slowed down a bit, and she knew she wasn't the only one listening to the soft, clear voice talking about highwaymen, about a cross-dressing highwayman.

"Highwayman?" Molly asked, "or highwaywoman?"

"He identified as male," Harry replied, "all the way through the trial, n-never wavered that he was Jack Hunter, not Joan. I say we should respect that identity."

"Load of rubbish!" Gareth broke in. O God, why did she still invite Gareth to her parties? "Of course she's a bloody woman, even if she dresses up like a man. All this social construction shit, gender identity disorder is rubbish. It's just some stupid bint who can't cope with biological facts."

"And there," said Harry coldly, "speaks the true closed, limited, scientific mind. Don't you agree, M-M-Molly?"

Suddenly, Molly felt rage shooting up in her. Because she was Dr Molly Hooper, and Harry barely knew where her thorax was. She might be a scientist, but she'd also gone on a course on 'Overcoming Transphobia', so she could deal with grieving relatives better, she'd even tried to read Judith bloody Butler. And she was still getting patronised, patronised by Harry...

"I need to check the canapés," she said, and walked off.

***

The next time she looked into the living room, Harry was drinking something that wasn't the colour of any the soft drinks on offer. Molly went to look for John.

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure why she's started drinking, but I think maybe I upset her," she said. "I shouldn't have encouraged you to come, should I?"

"It's OK," said John. "It's not you, it's her, you know it is in the end. And she does like having people to talk to, especially women. She'd probably just have got bored back at Baker Street and wound Sherlock up till we had a disaster there. Don't worry about it, you go and enjoy the party. It's your birthday, after all."

Molly went off and did her best to sparkle, because that was what you were supposed to do at your own party, wasn't it? It was just it was quite hard for her to sparkle, to make herself the focus of people's attention. Well, unless she met someone who was really, really interested in hearing about corpses.

***

She blew out all the candles on her birthday cake in one go, which got a rather ragged cheer from her friends, but she didn't make a wish this time, not after the results of last year's one. She was doing quite well, though, she decided, as she stood in the kitchen a little later, finishing up the last of the cake crumbs. Maybe an hour or two more to go. And then John was hurrying through the crowd to her, looking worried.

"I'm really sorry, Molly, " he said, "We've got to leave. Do you know where Harry is?"

"Haven't seen her for a bit," said Molly. "I saw her in the dining room last, is she still there?"

"No, and she's not in the bathroom or the downstairs loo. Could she have got into the garden?"

"Back door hasn't been opened. Is she OK?"

"I hope so. It's just we really have got to go." Sherlock came striding in, pulling on his coat and scarf.

"I said two minutes," he announced to John, "and it's three already. I am going to meet Lestrade, even if you can't be bothered to come."

John was starting to look frantic. "I can't leave Harry!"

"Well then, I can leave you," said Sherlock, "Don't worry, I'll be fine." He strode off.

"What is it?" Molly demanded.

"It's Sebastian Moran, he's been seen in Docklands," John said. "Moran, he's Moriarty's second in command." It was typical of John that he'd realised she could cope with hearing Jim's name. "Lestrade thinks they can corner him there. But he's a shooter, Molly, if we get this night over with no-one hurt, it'll be a miracle."

"You'd better go," said Molly. "Do you need anyone else to come? We've got half of Barts here."

"No, if anything happens it'll be field surgery, you need to be used to it. But I can't leave Harry."

"I'll look after her, they need you, Sherlock needs you. Go!"

"You're wonderful, " said John, and he kissed her very briefly -because he was a really nice man, even if gay and something almost like married -and then he ran off.

It took a lot of searching, but she found Harry at last, curled up asleep in the double bed in Molly's room. If she tried waking her up now, she'd probably just start drinking again, or cause more trouble. Best to let her sleep it off. She put Harry into the recovery position and left her.

***

One in the morning and everyone had gone except Mike Stamford, whose divorce had apparently now come through, and who was clearly going to be harder to detach than a tick. He was already muttering about why didn't they just clear things up in the morning, and maybe it was time to head upstairs.

"I must go and see how Harry is," Molly said quickly. She hurried to her bedroom, with Mike following. Harry was still sleeping peacefully there.

"I could get her in a taxi," said Mike, "Get her home to 221B, make sure she's OK, then come back here."

"I don't know if John's back," said Molly, "and even Mrs Hudson might object to Molly in this state." If Mike took Harry off her hands, she was going to have to sleep with him from pure gratitude - and, she suddenly decided, she'd rather have an unconscious historian in her bed than Mike.

"Spare room?" said Mike.

"There's no space in it, all the junk from downstairs is in there at the moment. No, I'll look after Harry, you head home, you must be exhausted. Thanks for all your help." She smiled at him.

***

She got Mike to leave after a few minutes. Maybe she was doing a bit better with some kinds of unsuitable men after all. She went back upstairs. It would be more comfortable in her bed, and Harry was very small, and the bed huge - the only good thing she'd got out of the three years with Paul Kablinksi. At least her taste in unsuitable men had got slightly better over the years.

She started undressing. She had vaguely hoped she'd end up in bed with someone at the end of her party, but this wasn't quite what she'd expected.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly's birthday party had ended with an unconscious historian sharing her double bed...

When Molly woke up, it was just after 6 a.m., far too early to get up. She needed to try and relax herself, get back to sleep. And it had been her birthday, and she hadn't got to do certain things last night, so she might indulge herself. It was surprisingly warm in the bed, it must be the radiant heat coming from Harry, who was still out cold, and probably would be for hours. Molly took off her nightie and rolled onto her stomach. It was her preferred position, because she could persuade herself that it was just chance that she was lying on top of her arm, which had happened to stray down her stomach, then lower, into herself. She had perfected the technique, found the forms of pressure that meant she didn't have to think of...anyone, just gently move her fingers, as she was doing now.

There was a sudden murmur beside her, then a tug at the duvet as Harry sat up. Molly lay still and closed her eyes, and heard the snap of the bedside lamp coming on. It shouldn't be embarrassing being caught touching herself in bed by someone who'd passed out drunk in the same bed, but it still was. She wondered about pretending to be asleep, even as she knew her breathing was betraying her. Then, after several centuries of silence, she felt a hand hesitantly touch her shoulder and heard a soft voice say: "You'd probably be more comfortable if you rolled over."

Molly really didn't know what else to say or do, so she surreptitiously pulled her arm away and turned onto her back, sliding down under the duvet as far as she could. Harry was sitting beside her, in her oversized T-shirt. In the dim light and without her glasses, her eyes were huge, a faint grey ring round her dilated pupils, and there was a glitter in them that Molly wasn't sure was quite normal for someone who should be terribly hung over. Except I know rather more about dead alcoholics than live ones, she thought.

"I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't mean to disturb you." It sounded ridiculous.

"But I rather like you disturbing me, because you do it in all the right ways," said Harry. "Like last night. I didn't expect any of John's friends to be so interesting, know so much."

"I'm just a pathologist-" Molly began.

"You understand about bodies. You can read them, like I can read a text, and then you can explain it all to me. It's a real talent."

"Th-thanks," said Molly. It was ridiculous that she was the one stammering now, while Harry's stammer had mysteriously gone. But the way Harry was looking at her...and now Harry's hand was sliding under the duvet, her cool fingers slipping onto Molly's skin, brushing one of Molly's nipples.

"Whereas I never know how people's bodies will react," Harry went on. "And I'm really not sure of the right way to handle them."

Molly had had some experience with predatory men before, learnt eventually how to cope with gropers. She'd never been fondled by someone smaller than herself, someone who looked more like a predatory kitten. Waves of entirely inappropriate sentiment were welling up in her. Along with other sensations. She wasn't sure what to say.

Fortunately, Harry seemed to be able to maintain a conversation, even as her finger continued its gentle progress back and forth over Molly's nipple.

"I'd like to see if I can...get to understand your body a little better, Molly, learn how to read it. And besides, it was your birthday last night, and I didn't give you a present." She paused and then added, "But I am quite prepared to stop if given clear instructions. So if you've worked out what you'd like-"

"No!"

"No?" Harry's hand dropped from Molly.

"I mean, actually, yes. I would like a...gift. If it's on offer."

"I'm glad to hear that, because I couldn't help noticing last night that you do have really nice thighs, and it would be a shame to waste them." The soft fingers of one of Harry's hands were back on Molly's nipple again, while her other hand started drifting up and down Molly's right thigh. Those were the only points of contact. Molly wondered if Harry's lips were soft as well; the mortuary was always freezing, hers got constantly chapped.

"I should mention," said Harry, "that I am a really good touch typist," and Molly eased open her thighs just a fraction, as Harry's hand found its target.

***

It was amazing to be with someone who knew where her clitoris was without being given detailed instructions, and Harry's slim fingers and their barely perceptible movements – well, actually very perceptible to one sense – were soon having a drastic effect. Molly could feel her body begin to twitch, she was losing control of her nervous system, pure sensation driving through her again and again, till she seemed to have no bones left. At last Harry's hand stilled, and pulled away, and they lay in silence for a while. Molly looked across at Harry, curled up in her ridiculous T-shirt, like a kitten that had killed a really tasty mouse, but might still have the energy for a small bird or two.

"Sit up," Molly said, and then she pulled the T-shirt overHarry's head. Beneath was her thin, flat-chested torso, covered by a plain and slightly grubby bra that almost concealed the state of Harry's nipples, till Molly's hands started to work on them.

***

Afterwards, quite a long time afterwards, Harry said: "I'm sorry about last night, I mean getting drunk at the party, I just..."

"What was it?" asked Molly, "You were OK at the start."

"I was trying to get a bit of female solidarity with you, against all the male chauvinist pigs there, only I hashed it up. I'm very good with texts about people, but pretty terrible with actual people."

"I'm better with dead people than live ones," said Molly. "I'm sorry, that sounds really strange."

"No, I'm used to that sort of thing. I have colleagues, friends, who are only really comfortable discussing nematode worms, or the meaning of life. Or both together, which is admittedly slightly odd. So problems with people are no big deal."

"Anyhow," said Molly, "I think you may have got the female solidarity thing sorted out a bit later."

"Good." There was a pause and then Harry asked: "Do you happen to have a tumble dryer, or an airing cupboard?"

"Yes, why?"

"It's just, I've only got the one set of underwear at the moment, owing to my flat being out of action, and it would be easier to wash the stuff here. It's a bit tricky doing that at 221B."

"My gosh, yes," said Molly.

"It's not John, it doesn't worry him, nothing does. It's just Sherlock would be...interested."

"He's interested in women's underwear?" asked Molly, trying to remember all the positive suggestions in the 'Overcoming Transphobia'course.

"Well, actually, mine, because I'm a lesbian, and he's trying to work out whether you can deduce a woman's sexuality from her underwear drawer." Harry's voice sounded caught between horror and the suspicion that it was an entirely logical course of action on Sherlock's part.

"I'll show you where the washing machine is."

***

Things got out of hand again after that, because it obviously made sense for Harry to wash all of her clothes at the same time. And since it was a cold morning, and nothing of Molly's fitted her properly, it was also sensible for Harry just to stay in bed till the washing was done. And it was obviously the duty of a hostess to stay with her guest, make sure she was comfortable...

***

It was getting on for 10 a.m., and Molly wasn't quite sure what to do now, because though Harry was warm and her clothes were now dry, she was starting to shake rather, and the stammer was back, and she was really not looking too good. Molly wondered what the correct thing was to offer an alcoholic for breakfast.

"What do you want to do?" she asked Harry at last.

"I think," said Harry, "I should p-probably go back to Baker Street, because when you've fallen off the wagon, John is the p-person to get you back on it." She paused, and licked her lips, and then said: "It's just, do you think you could phone him first and check he's OK? And if he's n-not there, could you phone Lestrade, and p-p-possibly some of the hospitals? Because, while I'm fine with horrible things happening to people in the eighteenth century, I'm really not good with things like that in the p-p-present, especially when it might be my big brother."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have told you about Moran," said Molly, "I'm sure they're fine. Do you always worry about what's going to happen to John?"

"Not all the time, but when he goes off like you said he did last n-n-night, I do worry a lot."

"Is that why you drink? Because of him being a soldier?"

"N-no. Or at least not just that. It's m-mostly my job. You spend all your time reading about people getting dead drunk for tuppence, it starts to seem n-n-normal. And I don't have to get up till lunchtime when I'm not lecturing, and n-n-nobody really worries about what you do as long as you still p-p-please the RAE. And it helps with the arguments too."

"The arguments?"

"Seminars, articles, all that. I spend a lot of m-my time arguing with people about history."

"You mean like with Sherlock?"

"P-p-proper arguments, with p-people who really kn-know something about history, not like Sherlock. People who kn-know the sources. But in history you can n-n-never finally prove you're right. The most you can do is convince people, or at least convince yourself. And I find it easier to convince m-myself once I've had a drink or two."

"Are all historians like that?"

"There are m-many sober historians. I hope to be one someday. Just n-not today. Is it OK if you start phoning?"

***

To the relief of both of them, John and Sherlock were safely home, although Sebastian Moran was now in the mortuary. Molly decided not to ask how he'd got there, she'd find out soon enough.

"Do you think you could possibly bring Harry over here?" John said. "I'll pay your taxi fare back." She heard the worry in his voice of someone who knew too much about pubs open 24 hours a day.

"That's fine," she told him, and went to sort out Harry.Soon they were sitting silently in a taxi. Harry seemed to have shrunk before Molly's eyes, and Molly thought she needed a label round her neck, saying 'Please look after this historian'. She smiled at her, not sure what to say. And suddenly Harry was smiling back, and fishing in her belt-bag, and handing Molly something.

"M-my card," Harry said. "Sometimes during p-parties, I've accidentally caused some damage. If you find anything broken, let me know and I'll p-p-pay for it."

"Please don't-," Molly began and then stopped. Did that mean, it probably did mean...

"Did you, did you sleep with me last night because you thought I was gay?" she said, trying to sound as if this was the kind of conversationshe had frequently.

"N-n-not particularly, M-M-M-"

"My second name's Susan," Molly broke in, "if you want to call me 'Sue'."

"That would be a big help, Sue," said Harry. "I slept with you because I thought you were sweet, and I have a terrible weakness for sweet women."

"I met Clara once or twice," said Molly. "She's very...nice, but she is rather posh."

"Our family all rather go for the upper classes," Harry said. "Clara was, is adorable, but she thinks there are so many things that you shouldn't talk about, because they're not n-nice. Like bodies, and death and n-n-nineteenth century sanitation, and I was really running out of topics of conversation with her. I like sweet women, Sue, but what I really like is sweet women who can talk about interesting things. So even if you don't want, if you just want to talk, I would very m-much like to talk to you again. About dead bodies, I mean n-not so much dead n-now, as long dead bodies, and you're starting to think I'm a bit strange, aren't you?"

"No," said Molly, "Sherlock is a bit strange, you have unusual scholarly interests."

Harry smiled. "And I particularly like discussing some of my texts with women, because m-male historians and doctors are so clueless about some things. So if you ever do want any further...contact, you kn-know where to find me."

Molly nodded, because if she opened her mouth, Sue would say that she would follow Harry through half the sewers of the London, and that kind of conversation was really not going to end well.

***

Once they reached the flat, Molly deposited Harry rapidly with John, who had the quiet sternness that spoke of tough love to come, and Sherlock, who Harry was kicking every time he looked about to announce a deduction about her. She retreated to the cab, still holding Harry's card. After a few minutes, she carefully began to tear it up.

Which was pointless, of course, because _harriet.watson@kcl.ac.uk_ was not an easy e-mail address to forget. And Harry and her publications would be easy to find on the web, if Molly wanted to know more about transvestite highwaypersons, which she definitely didn't. And, and it was a good thing she still had 364 days to go before holding a 'Getting over falling for unsuitable women party'.

 

[Old Bailey Online](http://www.oldbaileyonline.org/index.jsp)

[Voices from the Old Bailey](http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/b00t0dbn)

 


End file.
